


Your Heart is the Only Place That I Call Home

by CaroltheQueen (always_1895)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mind Control, Romance, Shower cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_1895/pseuds/CaroltheQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is drowning. Lost in a flood of violent memories that shouldn’t belong to him.</p>
<p>Another post-season 3, 'dealing with the City of Light trauma/fallout' fic. Marcus and Abby come to terms with their scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heart is the Only Place That I Call Home

**_But I know it’ll have to drown me, before I can breathe easy ** __**_**

**_**__** _ **

Marcus is drowning. Lost in a flood of violent memories that shouldn’t belong to him. He feels the dual sensations of nails piercing his wrists, then being the one to drive them home, through flesh and bone. There is the echo of feeling Bellamy’s neck giving under his hands, his body fighting uselessly for life against Marcus’ relentless grip. Aiming a gun at those he cares about, at family, and squeezing again and again without so much as blinking. So Marcus clings to Abby like a drowning man, buries his face in her neck and tries to block out everything that isn’t her. She feels so small, but so strong as she near enough holds him up. He wraps his arms around her and breathes her in as she runs a hand over his hair. She smells like salt and earth and blood, but she smells like _home. ___

He rests his forehead against her collarbone and gasps, realising he’s been sobbing into her skin, open and vulnerable in a way he can’t remember being since he was a child, and she has simply accepted him, with no judgement or blame, and cradled him tenderly to her breast. She has borne the weight of his sorrow; of _both _their sorrow, he thinks, with a sudden jolt. He feels the pain in his wrists and wonders how she must be feeling, in light of the love and care she is showing him in this moment.__

When he raises his head to look at her, his eyes and breath catch on red, raw skin; a necklace of rope burns encircling her throat, and a fresh wave of horror rises in him.

“What-?” His voice cracks, he can’t bring himself to ask; he needs to know but already can’t bear the thought of her answer. He strokes his thumb ever so gently over the abrasions but Abby still flinches. Then she shakes her head.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Abby…” He can’t keep the pain from his voice, and she can’t keep it from her eyes when she looks at him then.

“They were trying to get answers from Clarke.” Her voice is rough from the abuse her throat has suffered, “ALIE made me…” she doesn’t finish the sentence, she doesn’t need to: _hang myself. _The image of it in his mind’s eye has Marcus breaking all over again. From the look of her injuries it’s clear it was far too close. He could have lost her.__

“God, Abby…”

“No… Hey,” She’s holding his face now. She has black blood on her hands but he doesn’t care, her touch is everything. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” But even as she says this, her hands are moving to take his own, removing one of the poorly wrapped bandages around his wrists to reveal the wound, and her face is pure anguish. “I’m so sorry…”

Marcus doesn’t care about his own pain, he only cares about hers, and the pain he’s unwittingly inflicted on those he loves. In this moment he only cares about stemming the flow of her tears.

“You didn’t do that.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the marks on her neck, whispers, “Just like you didn’t do this.”

Abby’s breath hitches, but before she can respond, the two of them are pulled violently back into the room around them by the now-familiar sound of a blade rending through flesh. They look up in time to see Octavia pulling her sword back from where she’d thrust it all the way through Charles Pike, and Marcus watches in shock as the man falls, wide-eyed and gasping, to the ground, and is mercifully, quickly still. He feels Abby flinch under his hands, but this time his eyes stay on Octavia, her own eyes full of righteous vengeance, and he can almost hear her growl out: _jus drein jus daun. _The entire room has frozen; Marcus feels his heart, already weighed down with so much grief and guilt, grow even heavier as Octavia then strides from the room without a single glance back, and Bellamy’s face grows desolate.__

They have lost her to her grief and anger, and Marcus feels the tug to go after her like a physical ache in his chest. But he stays rooted to Abby, knowing he could do nothing to bring Octavia back, anyway. Despite everything Pike has done over the past few weeks, Marcus feels a sense of loss for him too. Perhaps not for the man he had become on the ground: the man who slaughtered hundreds of Grounders, murdered Lincoln, and was ready to kill Marcus too; but for the man he had once known and called friend. The man who had wanted to do right by his people, even if he’d gone about it all wrong. Marcus can understand that all too well, after all.

He suddenly feels exhausted in every possible way, and he’s too tired to ignore how his body aches acutely all over, or the stabbing pain in his wrists. He wants to fall back into Abby’s arms and sleep for a week. But instead he meets her eyes and they struggle wearily to their feet when Clarke breaks the silence,

“We should go.”

Abby’s hand slips into his.

**_Echoes of a city that’s long overgrown ** __**_**

Polis is devastated. Marcus had loved it here once, revelled in the thriving Grounder community and culture. A city that had forbidden weapons within it’s limits, now has rivers of blood running through the streets. It’s people are scattered, some are racing to loved ones, some are standing afraid and confused, some are simply still on the ground along with the dead, rocking and weeping. Some are getting to work though, helping the wounded. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus catches sight of the crosses in the city square and shudders, feeling sick. He clutches Abby’s hand like a lifeline.

She notices what he’s spotted and whips right back around again, turning her face into his shoulder, gasping. The crosses are empty, however. Thank God, someone had made those nailed to them a priority. Marcus wonders if it was Octavia, before she disappeared.

“Kane!” Indra is calling him and Marcus’ first reaction is to prepare himself for imminent death. But Indra saved his life. She is alive and he is forever in her debt. He turns to face her and she moves steadily towards them, her arm and other injuries hindering her movements. He takes in the rags tied around her wrists, mirroring his own. Her face is inscrutable when she reaches him, but then it always is. She has every right to blame him, every right to reject him, and he will mourn the loss of the tentative trust and friendship that has built between them. More than that, she is the strongest ally they have, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do without her, with Lexa already gone. But then she holds out her arm to him. Relief, gratitude and warmth explode in his chest and he grasps her forearm as she does the same.

“Wigot op ai./Forgive me.” He murmurs, not knowing how she possibly could.

“Yu laik ai lukot, Marcus kom Skaikru./You are my friend, Marcus of the Skypeople,” Indra says, with more warmth than he’s ever seen from her. “Ai lukot non don dula op disha. Der as noumou te wigot op./My friend would not do this. There is nothing to forgive.”

Marcus nods, and his jaw tightens. He fears if he opens his mouth he might sob, and Indra wouldn’t remotely appreciate that. He doesn’t feel worthy of her respect, forgiveness, or friendship, but he has them anyway. He would hug her but that would go down about as well as the sobbing. When he thinks he can speak and control his voice, he says, quietly but meaningfully,

“Mochof, ai lukot. Mochof gon eting./Thank you, my friend. Thank you for everything.”

He knows she hears how strongly he means it when she gives his arm a brief squeeze before letting go.

With Indra, they coordinate with a relieved David Miller (hugging both his son and Brian tightly); Jackson, looking upset and ashamed, even after Abby hugs him, repeatedly telling him that he wasn’t to know, and it wasn’t his fault; Nyko, supporting a badly wounded Roan (Marcus feels another stab of guilt and avoids the Ice King’s eyes), and a lot of other Grounders who Clarke seems to know are important. A plan involving the Millers, other guards, and Indra leading a march of Skaikru back to Arkadia, rather than linger in Polis, seems to be the most popular course of action. Not that anyone is expressing enthusiasm for anything at this point. Clarke and Bellamy are keen to get back to Raven, Jasper, Monty and Harper as quickly as possible.

“If we drive back,” Bellamy nods to Marcus and Abby, including them (Marcus manages not to flinch when Bellamy looks at him), “Touch base. Then we can drive round trips, pick up groups as they’re walking. Get Raven to get the other rovers ready to go.”

“Will we have a problem with Pike’s followers?” Marcus asks, this time he makes himself look Bellamy in the eye. He sees none of the blame or hate he believes he deserves.

“Sir, I don’t think anyone has any fight left in them. They know Pike’s dead. They’re mostly just scared and confused. They want to go home.” Home. Arkadia doesn’t feel like home in his head.

“Alright, as long as they recognise Miller’s authority if we’re going on ahead.”

Bellamy nods shortly, and strides away. He’s Marcus’ soldier once again. Marcus wonders, his heart hurting, if that’s all he’ll ever be.

Before they leave, Indra grasps his arm once more. “Mebi oso na hit choda op nodateim.”

They drive back to Arkadia in mostly silence. Bellamy takes the wheel so shotgun seems to fall automatically to Clarke. By some unspoken agreement, if anyone does speak it’s at a whisper. Abby is pressed up close along his side, her head on his shoulder, hugging his arm. Again, their fingers are linked, and he traces the lines on her palm with his thumb. She’s dozing, and though Marcus feels more tired than he’s possibility been in his life, he’s afraid to join her. Of what he might see when he closes his eyes. He takes the opportunity to rest his head against hers, though, watching the flickers of sunlight through passing trees. He wants to take comfort in the simple beauty of Earth, but it stirs nothing in him. He does, however, feel a flicker of warmth in his chest when Abby hums quietly and turns her face into his neck, blindly, trustingly seeking him out, even after everything that’s happened. If they have lost what little they knew of this world, if it’s all fallen apart, Marcus will not lose this. He will not lose her.

He looks away from the window to find Clarke watching them. Or rather watching her mother sleeping, with a look of love and sadness. She catches Marcus’ eye and offers a small twitch of her lips and a nod. He returns his own sad smile.

When they pull up to Arkadia it’s only four current residents are there to meet them. Abby and Raven immediately rush to each other, hugging tightly, with murmurs of “Are you okay?” and “I’m so sorry.” from both sides. Marcus can only see Raven’s face and she’s clearly fighting tears. Clarke appears at his side, watching the exchange too, as the others greet each other with relief around them. She frowns, the same expression on her face as she’d had before, in the car.

“She took the chip to save Raven,” she says, and Marcus realises he hadn’t known the reason until now. He _almost _feels like laughing, that _of course _he and Abby both surrendered for the same reason. “But I wouldn’t take it to save her. What does that make me?”____

Truthfully, in his heart, Marcus rages that Clarke had let her mother nearly kill herself. But his rational mind knows why Clarke still said no to ALIE. Just like he knows that, after she’d done what she had to do, Abby’s death would have broken her.

“The only person strong enough to save our people.” is what he ends up saying. He would have been able to make Clarke’s choice once. Not anymore.

“I wouldn’t take it for her,” she repeats, “but you did, didn’t you?” Marcus can only stare at her, caught between wanting to explain that he would do anything for her mother, and wanting to run away from Abby’s teenage daughter. “I’ve been going over it in my head. You’ve been ready to die for our people before. All I could think was it wasn’t your life on the line. And then I saw the way you looked at her in the throne room. The way she looked at you.”

Marcus nods, and his voice is rough with emotion when he finally speaks. “And ALIE saw it too. She knew. She knew that was the only way I’d…” He trails off, but Clarke is nodding, her eyes are wet.

“I’m glad she has someone who’ll put her first.” He hears the unspoken self-recrimination, but before he can respond, Raven is yelling about how “Clarke Griffin gets shit done!” and pulling Clarke away into a hug. Then Harper rather unexpectedly barrels into him with a hug of her own. It startles a laugh out of him, and Abby’s head whips round at the sound, a tearful smile emerging on her face, like she never expected to hear him laugh again.

“Glad you’re not dead, boss.” says the girl in his arms, and he huffs another laugh. She draws back.

“It’s good to see you too, Harper.”

Stepping inside Arkadia sends a shiver down Marcus’ spine. There is no life here, only the echo of it in the items scattered everywhere, abandoned mid-use. Cups are half-full (or _half-empty, _he muses, humourlessly), covered in a layer of dust. It feels like Mount Weather had, right after Clarke and Bellamy had pulled that lever. There was life here. Thriving life, relationships, history. But suddenly the people are gone, extinguished. There are only ghosts in the things they left behind.__

Their footsteps echo, their voices are hushed. Their people are not dead. They are making their way back, slowly. They will occupy this space again, soon enough. They will bring it back to life. Though not everybody. Not everyone made it, Marcus is reminded, as Raven, quiet tears spilling down her cheeks, comes to them holding a metal tin containing Sinclair’s ashes. It is a blow and he can’t stop his own tears as Abby gasps a “No!” next to him. Marcus draws her, sobbing, to him and thinks about loyal, dependable, brilliant Sinclair, who seemed at times to keep the Ark and it’s systems running entirely with his own two hands. Without whom they would not have survived down here. Who followed Marcus’ lead until it put him in a prison cell. Who followed his lead even after that, kneeling and facing down death together, with Lincoln at their side. They’ve lost Lincoln too, Marcus thinks. He’s the only one left.

_May we meet again. ___

_**But in order to get to the heart I think sometimes you have to cut through __**_ ****

Marcus’ room is the same, but, like he expected, it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He doesn’t know what home is. This room is dust and silence, just like the rest. Though there is no sense of disorder here. Marcus was long gone before the rest of Skaikru uprooted to Polis. He knew, the morning of his attempted coup, that it was unlikely he would ever see this room again. The bed is made, the paper work cleared away. His and Abby’s mugs are resting tidily by the sink. Marcus tries to remember the last time he and Abby sat quietly in his quarters with a cup of tea.

Perhaps Abby is thinking the same thing when she sighs tiredly, and he finds her standing next to him, having followed him into his quarters, her med kit in hand. She sees him eyeing it.

“Abby-” he starts.

“You need to get those looked at.” She nods towards his wrists. “You need to have them treated and dressed _properly _…” Her voice breaks and, instinctively, his heart aches in response. He turns to face her and takes hold of her upper arms gently. She looks miserable.__

“But it doesn’t have to be you.” He knows it would only hurt her, cause her more guilt.

Abby steps back abruptly, out of his reach, “Right, of course…” she mumbles, frowning and shaking her head, “… _stupid _, of course you wouldn’t want me to-”__

Marcus’ heart drops in realisation and Abby moves to step around him, “No, no, no, hey,” he catches her arm, “That’s not what I meant, Abby!” He draws her back further into the room and closes the door behind him this time. “I _meant _that you blame yourself enough for this already. I don’t want you to have to do anything that’ll make that worse.”__

She smiles sadly at that, and he hopes it’s because she understands he’s just trying to protect her, when he failed so spectacularly at doing so before. “If we’re going to get past this, Marcus, we can’t hide from the things we did.”

“What ALIE _made _us do.” He reminds, gently.__

“We can’t hide from what happened, not if…” She trails off uncertainly. And Marcus watches her struggle to find the words.

“If what?” He steps closer. She looks so unsure and vulnerable, but she’s studying him as if expecting to gain some insight on his face. He can’t see how, since he probably just looks confused.

“Do you still…?” Whatever she means to say dies on her lips again. She huffs with frustration, at herself, he gathers, and tries to ignore how adorable it was. Abby takes a deep breath and looks like she’s steeling herself, “The last time you left Arkadia, what we… It felt…” She sighs and fixes him with a look, vulnerable yet resolved, “It felt like a promise.”

It’s like a fog lifts from his mind and he’s been emotionally sucker punched at the same time. His mind reels: how could she not know? Marcus brings his hands up to cradle her face.

“My God, Abby, are you really asking whether or not I want this? Want _you _?”__

“It was just one kiss,” she stutters, but her eyes are full of hope, “I didn’t know-”

“It _was _a promise, like you said.” A tear escapes down her cheek and he catches it with his thumb. “It was our ‘to be continued.‘”__

She breathes a laugh and there’s a sudden swell of joy in Marcus’ chest; this must have been how Abby had felt upon hearing his own laugh earlier.

“Hell of a wait.” She whispers.

He nods, “I missed you.”

“God, Marcus…” Abby throws her arms around his shoulders, fitting their bodies together, and he winds his own tightly around her waist. “I missed you, too.”

They stay there silently for a moment, both content to just feel the other. Abby is soft and small in his arms, it belies her unyielding strength. Marcus could wrap himself around her entirely. Cover her. Keep her safe. Keep her _his _. For now he traces random shapes with his finger tips in the dip of her spine, and she threads her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. Eventually she sighs and trails her hands down to gently take his. He reluctantly lets her step away from him and into doctor mode.__

“I need to do this, Marcus. I need to see for myself that you’re okay…” Her jaw tightens but it doesn’t take the emotion out of her voice, “Make sure that you _will _be okay.”__

Abby takes off her shoes and sits cross-legged on his bed, encouraging Marcus to do the same. He does so, facing her, their knees touching. She opens her med kit and takes his hands, lays them, palms facing up, on each of her knees. With a brief, nervous look up at him, Marcus gives a small smile and a nod for her to continue.

The bandages are filthy as she unwraps them. Tied crudely to begin with, they are covered in dirt and grit that no doubt covers his person too. Not to mention the blood, his and… other peoples. He pushes the disturbing thought away, refuses to give it a face, a name. Instead he focuses on Abby’s competent hands. Hands that are as familiar to him as his own by now. The bandage catches both times as she peels off the last, stuck to the wound with dried blood, and he hisses through his teeth. But Abby doesn’t react. She’s frozen, staring at the sight of his wounds, the truth of them laid open.

They’re fairly small, really, if he looks at them objectively and tries not to remember how the nails felt going through. Little gouges, no bigger than the end of his little finger. But deep, of course, they would have to be. They’re bleeding now that the scabs have been torn away by the removal of the bandage. Bleeding, ragged and raw. A little pus leaking too, which should probably worry him.

Abby’s breathing hitches and he turns away from his study to see tears streaming down her face.

“Abby, it’s okay.”

“It is _so _far from okay.” She sobs. If he moves his hands, he knows, she’ll just berate him, so Marcus leans forward and touches his forehead to hers.__

“You’re right, I’m sorry, it’s not. We can’t forget, I know. We’ve already said we can’t pretend it didn’t happen if we want to be together.” His breath makes her hair flutter as he whispers to her. She leans further into him, her sobs have quietened. “So we face this. We look at them. Together. And I let you take care of the damage you think you’re responsible for.” He sits back up and she follows suit, sniffing and wiping her eyes. When she looks at him, he knows she’s heard him. “Make it better, Abby. That’s what you do. That’s who you are.”

She nods with determination, a quick smile of love and gratitude, and gets to work. Cleaning out his wrists makes them feel like they’re on fire, but he grits his teeth and holds as still as possible for Abby, even if he is painfully aware now of every ache and burn in his muscles and joints. But there’s something almost good about the pain in his wounds, like they’re being cleansed and purged of ALIE’s poison.

“They nailed in the soft part of the wrists,” She murmurs, whether to herself or him, he’s not sure, “Between the radius and the ulna.” She looks up at him with reassurance, “Nothing broken.”

“I don’t have to have a metal beam for a bandage this time, do I?”

It’s a crappy joke, but she huffs a laugh anyway and starts spreading an antiseptic cream over the entrance and exit wounds. “There should be an anaesthetic in this too, to help with the pain.”

He nods, just content to watch her work. She begins winding clean, white gauze securely around his wrists, asking, as she goes, if the pressure feels okay, if it’s not too tight.

“It’s fine. Compared to what I _had _it’s great.”__

She smirks a little, and when she’s tied off both dressings to her satisfaction she reaches for a roll of, what he _assumes _, to be something like duct tape. She sees him frowning at it and the smirk becomes fully-fledged.__

“No, this isn’t standard medical procedure, but knowing you, you’ll want to throw yourself back into the thick of it, and don’t think I won’t have something to say about that.” She adds, sounding anxious and annoyed, as she applies it, “This might provide a little protection at least, plus,” she lightly taps on one of his now taped wrists, “waterproof!”

“Um, okay, yeah, good idea.”

She sighs, “Marcus, I know you have other injuries, or at least a hell of a few bruises. I’ve been watching how you’re moving. I’d like to check them, and we could both use a shower.”

Marcus’ mind grinds to a halt after putting together the pieces of what it _sounds _like she’s suggesting. Then he’s thoroughly distracted by images of himself and Abby Griffin in the shower together. As badly as he wants that, and he wants it _badly _, he is exhausted and sore and aching. His soul is tired, and the thought of simply holding Abby, skin to skin, with no layers, barriers, or pretence between them, whilst letting the hot water soothe their weary bodies, sounds like heaven.____

He must be staring at her with wide eyes, because she smiles fondly, seeming to understand. She rises to her feet, “Come on.” gently takes his hand, and he lets her lead him into the small, utilitarian bathroom at the back of his quarters.

Abby turns on the water in the stall to let it warm up, then turns back to Marcus and, with her hands on his shoulders, raises herself up on her toes to kiss his forehead. Her lips erase any lingering insecurities and all he feels is love. When she comes back down, their faces are close.

“This okay?” She still looks a little unsure, despite her veneer of confidence when bringing this up and bringing him in here. Though of course he followed willingly.

“Yeah.” His voice is barely a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, wanting to be clear, “Yes. Please. I want to… I want this.”

They both know, without speaking, that “this” is not sexual tonight.

“Good.” She murmurs. And then her hands are at the hem of his shirt, tugging upwards, and Marcus raises his arms obligingly, but then ends up hissing in pain as his beaten muscles protest the movement. There is a throbbing in his shoulders and lower back. His arms feel like they’ve reached their limit, they feel heavy. He says so.

“That’ll be from the climbing, I should think.”

“Fuck, I really climbed up that insanely high tower, didn’t I?

She peels his shirt off slowly, carefully around his wrists, and over his head. She winces at the array of bruises colouring his torso. She touches one of his ribs, gingerly.  
“Not by choice.” Her voice is low, angry. When he looks down she’s still trailing her fingers over his skin, and it feels wonderful until she pokes or prods a particularly tender spot. The anger, perhaps at those who caused this abuse to his body (including herself, in her mind), has gone when she looks back up at him, and her eyes are soft. Her hands are still on his bare chest. She ducks down again and presses a kiss right over his heart, which is probably beating a little too fast. Marcus wonders if she just felt it grow twice in size. Tears prickle at his eyes as he looks at this incredible woman… who has _chosen _to love him.__

Abby makes short work of her own clothes, whipping them off quickly and efficiently, until she’s standing, nude and unselfconscious in the rising steam, in front of him, whilst he’s still struggling with his belt buckle.

Abby is… there are no words for how beautiful and sexy Abby is to him in this moment. There’s a smile in her eyes and on her lips and he takes her in, all the planes and curves of her. Her honey tresses, a little frizzy in the damp air, are tumbling in untidy waves over her shoulders and brushing her breasts. The sight of them makes his mouth water. To him, they are perfect. Her nipples are peaked, whether because she’s cold or because of his eyes on her, either way he doesn’t care, he just appreciates the overall effect. The stretch marks on her belly make him feel like he’s seeing something wondrous, intimate (not that this whole thing doesn’t feel _deeply _intimate.) He wants to kiss them. He doesn’t linger long on the dark hair between her legs because _fuck _does he want to kiss her there too.____

She seems to have spotted his problem, his injured wrists making it difficult to undo his belt properly. She steps into his space and when her fingers start in on his buckle, button and zipper, Marcus nearly groans.

“Abby…” he breathes, shakily.

She smiles like she knows how she’s affecting him, but also in a way that calms him. Though when she turns to enter the shower and let him finish undressing, Marcus runs a single finger down her bare arm and visibly sees her shiver. He smiles to himself, she is just as affected by him.

He shoves his pants and underwear off, peels off his socks, takes a deep calming breath and steps into the warm water. It immediately feels amazing and Marcus’ muscles begin to relax. For a water system cobbled together with parts that survived the Ark landing, it’s always a surprise that the water pressure actually is quite good. Though the hot water is supposed to be rationed, of course… Marcus follows his first instinct and draws Abby to him, her back to his chest, and wraps himself around her completely, just as he’d imagined doing. She gives a little squeak of surprise, but melts against him as soon as his arms are around her. She smiles, hums low in her throat, and tilts her head back against his shoulder so they can look at each other.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He whispers, overwhelmed to finally have her cradled against him like this. He hopes she feels as warm and loved and safe as he does. Abby reaches up and smooths back his wet hair that’s plastered to his forehead; allows her hand to continue on down the side of his face, thumb scraping back and forth against his beard. She regards him thoughtfully for a moment, and he watches the water running through her hair, droplets falling over her face.

Then she turns in his arms and wraps her own around his waist, bringing them flush together, and buries her face in his shoulder. Her breasts are pressed against his chest, and he’s half hard, but they both ignore that because she’s clutching him tightly, almost desperately. Marcus squeezes her,

“Abby?”

She’s silent for a moment, then: “I had to shoot a man.”

Marcus winces and closes his eyes, heart aching for her all over again. “You were protecting Clarke.”

Another beat, then, in a tiny, quivering voice, “I would have had to shoot you.”

Marcus has thought about it too. Known that if he’d killed Bellamy (he swallows down the scream that threatens to tear free at the thought), he would have gone straight for Clarke and nothing but a bullet in the head would have stopped him. So he just sighs and strokes her head, “Yes, you would have, sweetheart.”

He feels her shaking a little, pressing her forehead to his collarbone, so they stand that way and let the silence and the steam cocoon them in their own tiny corner of the world.

Marcus watches the blood and dirt swirling away and finally feels warm in a way that he hasn’t since that first heated kiss with Abby in that nearly empty hallway. Abby has stopped shaking and her breathing has slowed, and Marcus wants to catalogue every inch of her bare skin, memorise each sensation of it moving or pressing against his own. The way she fits into him. He strokes a hand over her hair again, it’s darker now that it’s wet, and tangles his fingers briefly in the strands. For her part, Abby has started digging her fingers into the knotted muscles in his back and shoulders, as far as she can reach. She smiles into his skin when she rubs a tender spot and he groans in appreciation. She could ask him to turn around, he knows, to do this properly, but she seems perfectly content to remain in the circle of his arms. He’d much rather have her there too.

Marcus trails his hand up and down her back, until he feels her shock-lashing scars and stiffens, drawing in a quick breath. Abby notices, of course, knows what he’s thinking,

“Marcus, don’t.”

“You want to hate yourself for hurting me when it wasn’t really you, when I did this to you? Fully, consciously aware of what I was doing?”

He steps back out of her hold and she lets him, but won’t allow him to go far. She takes his hands in hers, there’s barely a couple of inches between their bodies.

“I forgave you, Marcus, pretty much straight after it happened. I know you didn’t want to do it. You were pressured into it, by Byrne, by our people, by me, most of all. You were backed into a corner and I understood that.” He’s still avoiding her eyes, looking down at their feet as shame and regret wash through him, hateful, intrusive thoughts telling him that what he did to her is no different to what ALIE did to him, to everyone. “Hey,” Abby says, in that way she does when she knows he’s lost in self-recrimination. She brings his head up, hands holding his face, “You made me Chancellor to make up for it.” she quips, lightly, eyes soft and affectionate, like she isn’t thinking about that time he forced electric shocks through her body. _Showing him the way out of the dark _, he thinks.__

“I made you Chancellor that day for a lot of reasons,” he murmurs, “… but also because I never want to be in the position where I’d have to cause you pain again.”

“Oh, Marcus.” She kisses him then, finally. It’s deep and heartfelt, but it doesn’t last long, and she pulls back to look at him, all smiles and tears, “These are _our _scars. They’re our history. Like your leg,” she gestures to the long scar where she’d stitched up his femoral artery after TonDC, “Like mine.” The drilling hole marks left by Mount Weather. She touches a scar spanning the inside of his forearm, “Like your stupid, misguided attempt at self-sacrifice.”__

He snorts then, even though a few tears have welled up at her impassioned words. “For fucking _Jaha _, of all people.”__

She barks out a laugh, “Exactly, for fucking Jaha.” She quickly gets serious again, looking at him imploringly, “These,” she takes his wrists and lifts them, to rest his hands between their chests. “they have to be like the others.” Her voice is thick now, full of emotion. “Can they be like that, Marcus?”

“Part of our history.” He says, his own throat clogged with emotion, and she nods fiercely. The history he shares with the woman he loves. Their history, that they are allowing themselves to _feel _. To put aside the need to be strong all the time, and allow themselves to be weak, knowing that they each have the other to lean on. That they can be emotionally and physically bare like this with no one but each other. They wouldn’t want to be. Just standing as they are, sharing their bodies and their hearts, and starting to heal together in this private place of warmth and comfort, tells them both that this is what they can always find in each other.__

Yes, the scars he will carry on his wrists will be part of their history, a history that says they will survive together, just like all the others. He kisses her and it’s another promise: _together. ___

_**Your heart is the only place that I call home __**_ ****

They wash each other, touching and exploring, learning; lazy kisses and caresses that never grow too heated. They touch each other reverently, worshipfully. She washes his hair for him, then giggles when he tries to return the favour and her hair proves hard to manage with his injuries. When they’re finally, satisfyingly, clean, and they’re able to stop lingering under the bliss of the hot water and playful kisses, they drag themselves out of the shower.

“We’re terrible Chancellors,” He says as he dries off, “Leading by example and then wasting all the hot water.”

“Is that what we are?” She asks, stealing a clean shirt from his drawer on the way to bed and putting it on, thoroughly distracting and disappointing him at the same time.

“Hmm?” He grabs a pair of flannel pants that he uses for pyjamas, because, like her, he suspects, he’s thinking of the possibility of being barged in on in the middle of the night with a brand new crisis going on. And being naked in bed with Abby would probably mean he would never move again. Ever.

“Are we Chancellors? Will we have a Chancellor? Clarke said there won’t be a Commander, because according to Commander tradition, there’s no one left to do the commanding?”

She’s mumbling with her head already turned into the pillow, and Marcus knows that anything he might have to say (and he does, he has a lot to say) on the subject will not remotely register. So he lays down in bed next to the woman he loves, in his bed, where she belongs, and draws the blanket over them both. She’s lying on her side, hands resting in front of her face, and Marcus mirrors her position, facing her, taking one of those hands in his. She watches him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, smiling softly. He traces the lines on her palm, tries to remember what they all mean, wants to memorise every shape and crease.

“Those are all very good questions that are currently scaring the shit out of me, and will still be doing so tomorrow. Right now I just want to hold you and sleep, that okay?”

She huffs a laugh into her pillow and shuffles closer, arms going around his neck to bring his forehead to hers and bury her fingers in his hair. “Mmm hmm, please.” She hitches a leg over his hip and Marcus wraps her up, holding her like she might be ripped away from him at any moment. They’ve learned the hard way that such a thing is all too possible. This world had and would try to tear them apart every chance it got, and Marcus knows, from the look still in Clarke’s eyes, that it would be foolish to think that everything is okay. It isn’t okay, it’s all been torn apart. They’ve lost people and they have new burdens to bear. They have pain and memories to overcome. But Marcus trusts in this moment, with Abby in his arms, he is _home. _They have this moment.__


End file.
